


On the Other Side

by Liadt



Category: Richard III - Shakespeare
Genre: AU, Ableism, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, Self-Loathing, Torture, internal ableism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-14 05:36:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8000494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liadt/pseuds/Liadt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richard did not die at Bosworth. Kept in a cell and tortured, one day he has a visitor...</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Other Side

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_alchemist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_alchemist/gifts).



> For the_alchemist, I hope you like this fic, even though it's not the darkest.

Richard lay on his side keeping as still as possible. The slightest movement was agony - breathing made his ribs into a vice around his lungs. 

They had broken the bones in his hands today. It was for a joke. When his tormentors took him back to his cell - a tiny, unused storeroom - they'd thrown him at a scattering of vegetable peelings on the floor. His emblem was the boar, they reminded him, and pigs didn't eat with their hands. He had not given them the pleasure of seeing him reduced to eating like an animal. He would rather starve.

Contrary to popular belief, Richard hadn't died at the Battle of Bosworth. He had been knocked unconscious. After the battle, a soldier went to strip his body and noticed the slain king was breathing. Revived, he was taken on horseback to a large residence. It was in the countryside, Richard didn't know where. Nor did he know who was in charge of his torturers. Whoever it was, they did not visit and were content to let others do their brutal work for them. He was sure they meant him to suffer, not die, at their hands. Mostly, he languished alone in his cell. Once, when the guards chained him to a particularly wicked device, Richard assumed he was mistaken and his time was up. Before they could get started the machine refused to work. They took their frustrations out on the device instead. Richard saw chunks of it burning in a brazier later.

Initially, Richard had found an odd delight in taunting his captors and laughing at their efforts to break him. Pain he was used to; with his body, he'd known it his whole life. The situation hadn't lasted. One day they held him down in a barrel of water to determine if he was a witch. He imagined he saw George swimming towards him, with hands stretched out to strangle. He cried out in terror not to be dunked under again and then they were the ones who laughed, without understanding how they'd broken him. After that, Richard had no stomach for pain.

Richard heard the cell door open. He shut his eyes against the light that poured in.

“My lord?” asked a voice, hesitantly. 

Richard squinted up at the man who entered. The man stooped over Richard: the low ceiling prevented all but the shortest from standing up straight. He was in his early twenties, with sandy hair and a long face. A new one, that explains the uncertainty, thought Richard. He'll get over it and master saying 'my lord' with a sneer soon enough. The man put down a bowl of soup and a full jug. Ah, a second feeding time for the hedgehog, they are most kind.

“Are you all right, my lord,” said the man in response to Richard's silence. 

Richard gave a bitter laugh. 

The man pushed the door almost to, leaving some light to see by. 

“You may as well leave the door open. I'm not going anywhere. My good leg isn't much better than my bad one.”

The man continued to stare down at him wide-eyed. He clearly wanted to say something. 

No, this was no torturer. “Have you come to gawp at me?”

“My brother saw you being dragged down the corridor. He'd also heard rumours the old king was here. I don't come in here often. I'm a groom, you see, there's no reason for me to be in Lord Felman's house.”

Lord Felman? Richard did not recognise the name. “But you thought it was worth coming to see the uncrowned king regardless. Or do you have a desire to see at close quarters a malformed lump without his shirt? I would give you a better view, but movement does not come easy to me at present.”

“You're in a mess.” The groom took out a cloth and dipped it in the untouched bowl of water left by the guards. 

“That I cannot deny.”

“If you could lift your head.” He showed him the cloth.

“No.” What foolishness was this?

“You can't or won't?”

“A mixture of both.”

“Then I shall aid you.” 

The groom grabbed Richard and sat him against the wall. Richard cried out in protest at being manhandled. 

“I'm sorry; I don't know where it hurts.” 

“Everywhere,” growled Richard. He closed his eyes to shut out the man's pitying look. Even that that was not calculated to hurt him did. 

Embarrassed at his clumsiness, the groom wiped Richard's face, taking off congealed blood and dirt. He then glanced at Richard's bloodied hands, picked up the water bowl and hovered over them.

“No,” said Richard. He knew he would scream the place down at an attempt to wash his hands. “Are you getting me cleaned up for an audience with whosoever has ordered me to be kept in this manner?”

“No, my lord, as I mentioned, I came of my own accord. Here drink this wine it will do you good.” The groom thrust the jug at him. 

“As you may have guessed, I am without the use of my hands.” Irritating, the man was irritating.

The groom nodded and held the jug to Richard's lips. The smell of the alcohol hit his nose and he opened his mouth greedy for the taste. As he drank, he noted it was good wine too. Then he grimaced. The wine had a bitter after-taste; it tasted like the concoctions his physician prepared. Was he being poisoned? He didn't care as long as death came swiftly.

“I laced your wine with something that will ease your discomfort,” said the groom. “Are you hungry?”

“If the food is of the same quality as the wine...” 

The groom looked pleased and scooped a spoonful of broth from his bowl. Richard lent eagerly forward, but his ribs objected and tears sprang from his eyes. Tears came easily to him now, when once they did not. 

The groom put down the bowl and kneeled close to Richard. “We'll try again shall we?”

Richard had nothing to say to that and allowed the man to spoon-feed him like a child. 

His hunger sated and feeling light headed from the wine, Richard asked, “Why?”

The groom gently pushed Richard's hair back off his face as he considered his answer.

“Why are you being so kind?” Richard was sure with any more of this treatment he would cry again and regretted letting the man tend to him. He'd been battling out a way for his mind to cope with the pain and this compassion would set him back. When the drugs in the wine wore off the pain would be twice as unbearable. 

“I wanted to meet someone like me.”

Richard stared at him. He could not think of a person less like him and said as much. The groom was tall and lean, while he took after his father and was short and stocky. The man's body did not offend his eye, with two well matched arms, and his face was open and honest.

“Did you not notice my back or my limp when I came in?”

“All my visitors must stoop to avoid banging their heads and there is no room to walk properly either,” said Richard and mused that perhaps his deformities were less monstrous than he believed.

The groom nodded. “And I am not as bad as you.”

Or not. 

“When my spine curved as a child my aunt, who has uncanny knowledge, predicted it would get worse and it has,” said the groom.

“Aye and the pain gets worse too. Take whatever you put in the wine when it does.” Even in a short exchange, there was something intoxicating about talking about things that no one else understood.

A thought struck Richard that the groom wasn't widely travelled. If he had visited any large town and went to where the beggars congregated, he would have seen others like him. Richard did not say this aloud as he did not like to dwell on his likely fate if he was a peasant. “If you wish to meet more like yourself, then you should make a trip to all the fine castles across the land and seek what lurks in the rooms where no-one goes. My mother wanted me shut away, but my father would not let her. And she was the only woman he was ever inclined to give way to.”

“The Duchess? She was probably only trying to protect you. My mother was overprotective. It may please you to know, your mother still lives and King Henry will become as a grandson to her, when he weds your niece, Elizabeth. They say she is very beautiful,” said the groom, happy to give Richard some family news.

“Yes, she is.” So Richmond had kept to his course. Jealousy ran through Richard's veins. Since his incarceration, all he'd been told of outside events was that Richmond was king and not to hope for help, as he was believed to have died at Bosworth. First Richmond had stolen his crown - that he had worked so hard for - and now his niece, who was to have been his bride. 

The groom noted Richard's darkening face. “But it is good to still have your blood on the throne, is it not?” 

“For Richmond it is, for he has tied himself to the crown with Elizabeth's legitimate bloodline to quieten those who would say he has no right to it,” said Richard, sourly. “Is it true I am thought dead?”

“Aye.”

“Would the people let the Welshman keep the crown if they knew I still lived?” 

The groom looked away from Richard. “All around it is accepted that you were a villainous tyrant who did terrible things. I think these are exaggerations. Leaders are often blamed for what others do; in the belief, their deeds will please their master. If you want the truth, Henry has brought peace and become widely beloved in a short time.”

He wants to meet me and calls me lord respectfully, but I fancy he has no desire to see me returned to my rightful place. However, I cannot give up hope, thought Richard. “Will you help me escape?”

The groom's eyes widened in fear. “My lord! I do not see how. I have a wife and a young child to think of, if I was caught… I shouldn't be here and would be punished harshly for this visit.”

That was that then. “Will you visit me again?” Given time, Richard knew he could persuade the groom to help. It wouldn't be that hard, he had made men do worse things with words alone.

“I couldn't promise.” The groom slide back from Richard.

Richard's hopes died. Fear had put a barrier against a chance of freedom. “Then...” Richard paused; he did not know what to ask for. “Can you stay awhile longer? You have given me some small comfort and it has been so long since...” Richard's voice cracked with emotion.

“I am sorry to see a man so mistreated.”

“I apologise in advance if I give you nightmares.”

Overcome, the groom gave Richard a clumsy hug. Well, he guessed he'd asked for that, he was no doubt a pitiful sight. Richard relaxed in to the embrace; it reminded him of the ones his brothers used to give him when they were young and cared not for crowns. 

**

Months later, the door to Richard's cell opened and a large man filled the doorway. Richard recognised him as one of his torturers. The man had a coil of rope slung over his shoulder. Richard regarded him warily. After a beating the previous day he had expected to be left to heal. 

“You're going on a trip today, my lord, and I am here to take you to your new home. Sorry there's no time for breakfast,” said the man.

Richard wasn't sorry. The last decent meal he had eaten was the one the groom had fed him. He had got a lot from that short, solitary visit. Although he had lost hope of a return visit, to keep himself from falling into the darkest pits of despair, he had created a series of complex fantasies centring on the groom. In them, he'd had long conversations, where the groom was compelled to aid him. Richard's cause touched his heart and he brought a peasant army with him to tear Richmond off his throne. In a less fantastical mood, he imagined knocking the groom out and swapping places with him. In reality, he could barely walk and doors were complicated without a decent grip which would hamper his escape. He discounted these difficulties, he was certain he would find a way around them. As long as he had all his limbs, they didn't need to be perfect. 

Uncaring of Richard's thoughts, the guard tied Richard's wrists together above his head. Richard didn't speak. There was no point in asking questions when the best reaction was the silent treatment. The guard then roughly shoved a rag into Richard's mouth and secured it with a strip of cloth. “Much as I enjoy hearing your cries, I've been ordered to keep you quiet,” he said, as he put a sack over Richard's head. Using the last of the rope, he bound Richard's ankles together. Richard suspected his fortunes were going to get even worse. With a grunt, the man hefted Richard on to his shoulder. Richard was carried along a corridor until he felt the chill early morning air hit the bare skin of his back: he was outside. 

Richard's arrival in the courtyard was greeted by horrified mutters and a woman gasped, “Don't look at it, child. Come away now.”

The guard laughed and patted his burden. Richard's insides churned with shame and embarrassment at being so exposed and then flushed with anger. As he was placed across a horse's back, Richard wished he could break his bonds and perch atop the animal and show off his torso. He'd tell the woman to let her child have a good look, for this was the body that had slain scores in battle, made a widow forget her handsome husband and worn a crown on _its_ head. No, he was a thing to be showered with praise not abuse. However, it was not to be and the guard mounted behind him and kicked the horse forward.

**

The horse changed its pace from a jolting, bouncy trot to a slow walk and came to a halt. The large guard jerked the sack off Richard's head and dumped him on the ground next to a trench. In it were three workmen busy with shovels and beyond them trees. They were in a clearing deep in the woods. 

“Here's where it ends, Richard. A pretty spot. I wouldn't mind being buried here myself.” Stepping into the trench, the man helped finish the grave. 

Richard lay there panicking. Another joke? But he knew this man well; this was too elaborate a trick for him. And the man had called him 'Richard', not 'my lord', for the first time. He didn't have time to dwell on details as two of the workmen picked him up and dropped him on to his back in the trench. His guard departed and Richard heard the sound of hoof beats disappearing into the distance. The workmen picked up their shovels and filled the grave in.

Richard had never thought it would end like this or without finding out whom and why. He struggled to free himself. He knew it was painfully futile, but he could not calmly accept what was happening to him. The workmen didn't respond there were no jeers or mocking laughter. They remained stony faced and kept their eyes on their spades. That frightened Richard more. He tried to shout through his gag to beg, to wheedle and promise he could get them what they most desired. Still no reaction. Didn't he make a ridiculous spectacle? Wouldn't their job be easier if they hit him with a spade to finish him off? It was exhausting, but Richard continued to struggle until the weight of the earth pinned him down. As the oxygen ran out the feelings of terror subsided, somehow it felt apt that he who had been set apart from others in life was in death. Lights danced before Richard's eyes and he drifted off for the last time. 

**

A blackbird's alarm call pierced the air. Richard's eyes fluttered open. He was out of the grave, but still in the clearing, propped against a tree. Presumably, he had been rescued – his bonds were cut and he wore a fresh shirt. A man was filling in the trench. The man finished his work, turned, straightened his back - as much as it would let him - and limped up to Richard.

Ah. 

Richard gave the groom an idiotic grin of happiness. This man would not harm him. “Thank you for rescuing me. Now, tell me, where is your army?”

“My lord?” said the groom.

“Ignore me. You came to save me when I'd lost hope.” 

“When I was out in the courtyard, I saw you and followed out of curiosity. I couldn't let you die like that – I saw myself in your place.”

“Because we are both crook-backed.” Richard could not claim the same solidarity. If the roles were reversed, he would have shunned one more misshapen as if by being put side by side would double his repulsiveness. Yet the well-made had surrounded him all his life and their presence had failed to make him acceptable.

“It must be, my lord, but we must hurry. I borrowed a horse, without asking and it will be missed. You cannot stay with me. I have no food to spare, I have scant enough for my family as it is and my wife is carrying a second child in her belly. There is a monastery on the other side of the woods. The monks will care for you. I will tell them you are a beggar who has been set upon by wicked thieves.”

“I do not intend to be a beggar.”

“But you must, for your own safety.”

And your own, thought Richard. If this spot hadn't been deserted, he was under no illusions that the groom would have fought the workmen to free him. Richard gazed at the sun which he had not seen for months and enjoyed its warmth. He did not plan to be locked away a second time. The monastic life was by no means perfect, but it might not turn out badly for him. After all, a mitre was just another kind of crown.


End file.
